Fallout (8 page)

M
Y
M
OTHER

Gifts me with a visit once, maybe

twice, a year. Our conversations

seesaw between inane and trite:

How’s school?

“Okay, I guess.”

Still running track?

“Not for a while.”

Extracurricular stuff?

“Not really, no.”

How they
should
go is like this:

How’s school?

“Better than could be

expected, considering

I only have foster parents

to make sure I’m there

on time, with breakfast in my

belly, encouraging my rather

outstanding performance,

despite the fact that no

one really gives a shit.”

Still running track?

“Not since the day a wind

sprint almost sent me to

the hospital because my

asthma (which can no doubt

be attributed to your

tweaking during the first

trimester you were pregnant

with me, and smoking the entire

nine months) kicked in so

hard I could barely suck

enough air to keep my

face from turning blue.”

Extracurricular stuff?

“Sure, because I’ve been

encouraged so regularly

to explore my unique set

of talents, huh? And, like,

I’ve got parents who’d

come watch me perform

even if I could sing or act

or dance or whatever.

No, Mother. My only

extracurricular stuff has

to do with making out.”

I COULDN’T SAY THAT, THOUGH

Because then she’d feel validated

about her other regular line of inquiry:

Boyfriends? No?

Girlfriends, then?

Either way, it’s all

good with me.

I hate that she thinks sex

is the only thing on my mind.

The last time she went there,

she was taking me back to Darla

and Phil’s, after a long weekend

of not-quite-bonding at her tacky

Vegas apartment.
Any news on

the boyfriend front? Getting a little?

Like I’d confide in her if I was.

“Who do you think I am? You?”

Sometimes, I guess, I’m snappish.

But doesn’t she deserve snap?

Her comeback was immediate,

not to mention completely lame.

Summer Lily Kenwood!

Why are you so angry?

“Let’s start with my name.

Like my life is so full of sunshine,

and like you didn’t know how

crappy it would be the day you

named me. And then there’s

you, who chose to go ahead

and have me, even though

you didn’t want me….”

She jerked her piece-of-crap car

over against the curb. Lit a new

cigarette off the one already

irritating my asthma.
Shut your

mouth. I did want you. Still want you.

I just don’t have enough resources….

“God, Mother. You sound like

an investment banker instead of

a total loser tweaker. Resources?

What you don’t have is enough love.”

IT WAS NASTY

Mean.

In your face.

Designed for

overt reaction.

And it got zero.

She pulled away

from the curb, exhaling

nicotine poison, regardless

of my little brothers, chilling

in the backseat. Drove me home,

dropped me off without a single word.

I don’t know

if she was stunned

into silence, or if her

meth-mangled brain couldn’t

grasp what I said. Either way, we

haven’t spoken

in months. I’m pretty

sure she was straight that

day. Pretty sure she’s been

straight every time I’ve seen her.

Always, she’s chain-

smoking anxious. Often,

she’s angry. I’ve never seen

her happy. Was she ever happy?

Was she ever happy when not using?

GODDAMN METH

Has ruined

so many lives.

Her life.

Dad’s life.

My life.

Friends’ lives,

because they use

or because people

they love use.

They don’t call it

the monster for

nothing. It chews

people up, spits ’em

out, often unsalvageable.

So why have I been even

a little tempted to take

a spin with the monster?

IT’S NOT HARD TO FIND

Here in Bakersfield. In fact,

California’s central valleys

are fertile ground for more

than pistachios and wheat.

They are, in fact, a sort

of monster lair. Bikers

have busily built labs

in the area for many years.

And while law enforcement

has been busy too, there’s

a lot of “nothing” out here.

They can’t be everywhere.

I know all this because

my boyfriend’s Gramps

was an original Hells

Angel manufacturer.

He’s in prison too. Not for

cooking it or transporting

it, but for stabbing a guy

in a bar fight while high on it.

That’s not something Matt

is proud of. In fact, he hates

meth, and what it’s done

to his family. If he knew

the idea of trying it had

even crossed my mind,

he would not be happy.

And if he had the slightest

notion that his best friend,

Kyle, is the one who keeps

offering it, Matt might end

up just like his grandfather.